


The Space Between

by LenahCC



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Break Up, F/M, Star Trek Beyond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-08-31 07:44:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8570125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LenahCC/pseuds/LenahCC
Summary: To choose her above ten thousand souls? In the numbers alone, logic was already against her.





	1. Chapter 1

**1**  

What surprised her the most was how _calm_ she sounded.

No stray tears. No helpless break in her voice. No mess as her body, already well acquainted with the necessary pattern of movements, poured her favorite brew of tea into the mug. 

“I need some time off.”

Once uttered, the weight on her chest was lifted such that she was able to take one deep breath with ease before her emotions came crashing down. 

* * *

  _“Are you going to have your own space?”_

It was her sister’s first response after she announced that the Enterprise had been commissioned for a 5-year diplomatic deep space exploration. The recently graduated human rights lawyer had taken the time off to fly to San Francisco to help her pack and spend sibling quality time before the scheduled departure.

Nyota wrinkled her nose as she tossed a well-loved skirt into the ‘to-bring’ box. “Yeah, of course, Mai. But it’ll be more like a walk-in closet or an extra space if I need it. Here, add this to the giveaway pile.”

Maisha Uhura caught the old sweater and dumped it to the designated box. “Right. Because you’ll be staying with your dreamy Vulcan Commander.”

  
“Well, as first officer _and_ chief science officer, he gets a nicer room. _Much_ nicer,” she stated with raised brows and a grin. “With a huge window and bigger bathroom.”

“I don’t know Ny . . . 5 years is a pretty long time to spend with a boyfriend in an enclosed space.” Her sister toyed with one of her old earrings. “I mean, you already, what, see him for your eight hour shift? Would you _really_ want to see him for the remaining nine hours of your waking day, _every_ day for the next _five_ years?

Nyota paused. She had thought about it too, what such prolonged proximity could do to her and Spock’s relationship. It felt like such a huge commitment, such a leap forward.

In the past she’d dated guys who had gotten too close too fast and who didn’t understand that she was the kind of girl who liked having time for herself. Who liked occasional silence and solitude.

But Spock wasn't like the other guys. He never smothered her with his presence. Spending time with him, telling him things never felt compulsory—at least _so far_ —and the silence never awkward. Also, they’d gone on several space exploration missions in the past two years and they’d been fine, generally speaking.

 Still, none of the expeditions was as long as 5 years. It was unchartered territory.

“It’s not like we talk to each other a lot at work,” the lieutenant reasoned, throwing an old silk pajama bottom into her box. “We’re very professional. Besides, he’ll probably be really busy with the science team. If our aim is to observe and record new life forms as well as to broaden diplomatic ties, Spock will be given a lot of data to crunch on. Plus, he’ll be with Jim most of the time to make sure the captain doesn’t do anything too stupid so . . .”

Her sister tried to hide the skepticism behind the slow nod. “Okay, sis. I forgot. Given how sickeningly in-love you are, I’m sure space is the last thing on your mind.”

Maisha ducked and evaded the jacket sent flying her way by inches. Then to cement the change of conversation, the younger woman got one of Nyota’s lacy skirts and added. “And as your favorite sister in the world, can I have this?”

 

The memory, more than two years ago, came to her like a vision and pressed down on her chest.

 With her PADD lowered to her lap, Nyota covertly observed as Spock got up from his desk on the other side of the room and walked a short distance to the hologram clusters projecting his current research on Fibodan weaponry and its significance to the species’ culture. He has been striving to acquire a better understanding of it for the past three days with a devotion that even surpassed the typical Vulcan work ethic.

Spock stood with his side to her as he briefly typed on his PADD to make minor corrections to the A.I. algorithm he drafted the previous evening to aid him in his research. The movements of his body—the tilting of his head, the dexterous swiftness of his fingers, the stillness of his composure—always struck her as graceful in its precision.

But behind his standard composure and neutral expression she knew he was struggling— _has been_ struggling—ever since he received the unfortunate news of Ambassador Spock’s critical illness thirteen days ago.

While New Vulcan was favorable in many ways to the resettlement of the little that remained of the Vulcan population, there were challenges that were inevitable, disease being one of them. As a new habitat, there were bacterium and viruses present in the environment un-encountered by the Vulcan immune system. 

Nyota thought it cruel how their internal suffering could still be compounded by physical ailments. As if to have survived through the worst genocide in history was not traumatic enough. 

Most illnesses were not lethal, simply a different strain of the common cold, and the young fared considerably better than the old. But the Ambassador was neither young nor the illness he contracted mild. The combination, as conveyed through the call made by Sarek, led to the older Spock’s confinement in a hospital, tubed to respirator aids and other machines that she did not wish to imagine.

The father and son had solemnly discussed the probability of the Ambassador surviving through the ordeal and the conclusion was dismal. Some time through the call she had to excuse herself when tears started spilling down her cheeks.

It hurt to know that Spock—not _her_ Spock but still Spock nonetheless—was suffering . . . _dying_. How did that even feel for him? She asked him that evening as they laid in bed.

“The prospect of losing a mentor very much admired is unfortunate,” he said without so much as a break in his voice.

 _“I’m sorry,”_ she replied after a deep exhale.

Spock turned to look at her, curious. “Nyota, as you have had limited contact with the Ambassador, what is the basis of your sympathy? Or is it grief that you wish to convey?”

“I’m sorry _for_ you,” she whispered. “And _I’m_ sorry because it _is_ _you_. The idea of you suffering . . . even if it’s the older you whom I don’t really know . . . it still hurts.”

A few seconds of silence later, just as she was on the precipice of sleep, she heard him respond: “Thank you, Nyota.”

 

She traced Spock’s back with her eyes. He alternated between standing in thought and manually rearranging the hologram projections that responded to the tips of his fingers. The change in him was so subtle such that it even escaped the notice of close friends. As always, his stellar performance remained as consistent as his good posture and the precise cut of his bangs.

Within the first few months of their relationship, she had come to realize that her aural talent could only help her so much in understanding the enigma that was a Vulcan. It helped, yes, to detect minute inflections in his tone that sounded akin to frustration or mirth or even affection, but should he really desire to, she knew Spock could also neutralize it convincingly enough and purge emotions from his speech.

Hence, she had learned to read his eyes—his _human_ eyes, someone once spat at him as a child as if it were a crime to be ashamed of. His eyes, she thought with over brimming gratitude, was the best way to reach his soul. Sometimes it was the _only_ way, because while it wasn’t as even half as reflective of emotions as a human male's, it showed her glimpses of _feelings_ otherwise concealed.

Humor. Affection. Impatience. Sorrow. Hurt. Grief. _Guilt_.

It was his eyes that convinced her of a turmoil that existed within him—a turmoil that perhaps never really left. That conflicting choice between the _desire_ of staying aboard the Enterprise as a Star Fleet officer and the _logic_ of returning to New Vulcan to serve the needs of the many, his _kin_ , in place of the Ambassador.

And really, what does one even say to that kind of choice?

Nyota sucked in a deep breath to quell the nausea in her gut and to ease the burden grounding on her chest. She was momentarily thankful that Spock was facing away from her, oblivious to the sudden shortness in her breaths.

The past few days felt like they have been dancing in denial around the elephant in the room. But the reality was, they were both on collision course toward inevitable confrontation. It was simply a question of _when_.

Her fingers tensely moved to touch the cerulean amulet hanging above her chest.

Just seven months ago, Spock had given her the necklace as a 6th anniversary present after a simple yet intimate dinner in their quarters. In the low lights, she initially thought— when he took a box out—that he was proposing. They usually do not express their affection through gifts so the fact that he got something for her both freaked her out as much as it thrilled her.

When he opened the box, it revealed a necklace. The pattern of the design as well as the smaller details of the jewelry’s craftsmanship confirmed her impression that it was Vulcan-made.

“I believe it is customary among humans to present a token of affection and respect to their lovers, especially on an occasion such as tonight's,” Spock told her, the corners of his lips lightly upturned in his charming way.

“It’s beautiful,” she choked out, heart hammering against her rib cage. Her mind fired her with questions as to the meaning of such a gift.

“The stone is a special mineral called vokaya, local to Vulcan. It was my mother’s.”

Her lips parted slightly at this revelation and he continued. “She had presented it to me years ago on one of her visits to San Francisco during the earlier stages of our relationship. I believe she meant it half in jest—a jab against my inexperience with romance—and in a portrayal of maternal blessing to my chosen mate.”

Nyota looked down at the necklace and briefly imagined Amanda Grayson fondly picking it from her own jewelry box. The history . . . the _sentiment_ was overwhelmingly moving.

“I don’t know what to say, Spock.”

“An optional response would be acceptance.”

“I—Yes, of course, I accept it!” she laughed, tears moistening her eyes. “I meant to say that _thank you_ seems really lame right now. And I feel bad I didn't get anything for you!”

The tenderness in his gaze fanned a blaze within that seeped to the soul, filling her with unspeakable happiness, with _love_.

“May I?” he inquired, holding out the unclasped necklace by its chain. When she nodded, he stepped behind her. His fingers brushed lightly against her skin and her heart jumped at the contact. When the necklace was finally fastened, she touched the stone hanging at a perfect spot above her chest.

That night they melded and made love with an intensity that consumed. The next day, Nyota called Maisha all giddy and gushing about the priceless present around her neck, hidden underneath her uniform.

 

Nyota closed her eyes to focus on breathing through the wrenching in her gut. 

It _hurt_.

And maybe it hurt a little more because of what he had given her that night— _hope_ , a conviction that the guilt that she knew had been plaguing Spock since he resumed his post as First Officer under the official captaincy of Jim Kirk no longer had a hold on him—on _them_.

She had thought they could finally move forward together without her having to worry that he would take two steps in the other direction bound for New Vulcan.

The days following that relationship milestone, she reported to her post with the Vokaya necklace tucked underneath her dress and a personal sun shining above her head. Her joy lasted a good month after that it drew compliments from her peers.

“Did you get a new workout routine at the gym?” Kirk asked one time as they were walking down the hallway to the mess hall.

Nyota already had a hunch on the direction of the conversation “No,” she responded with a gloating grin.

“A promotion?”

“I wish.”

“New evening moisturizing routine? I wouldn’t mind trying it out.”

“No, Jim.”

The captain stopped her with a hand on her shoulder, his blue eyes _twinkling_ with devious intentions. “Did Spock up his game between the sheets?”

When she paused, Kirk pumped his fist in fraternal pride. “That son of a gun.”

“Oh stop it.” And walking a few steps ahead, she turned with a wider grin and added: “It’s _not only_ that.”

 

Hope was a wonderful thing. 

But when crushed, it was far too cruel.

What was it they say about love? That it is patient and kind? Her mother had taught that to her one summer when they passed by a community church on the way to pick her dad up from work. She was only eight years old. 

Her mother had looked over her shoulder briefly to meet her young eyes. “You know what, I can never remember the verses from their holy book, but I do remember what the members say about love. Love is patient. Love is kind. It is never self-serving and never boastful. Isn’t that beautiful? That’s what love is, _kupenda_. It is uplifting, makes us into better people, liberates. Remember that.”

How convenient to focus on the better virtues, Nyota thought petulantly. 

Love is kind but it _hurts_.

Love is patient but it is so, so  _hard_. 

Love is never selfish, but is the desire to keep a person you love and who loves you back considered selfish? Is it wrong to hold onto to a shared love that is good _and_ precious _and_ so incredibly amazing and not want to let that go?

 _Only if you hold on to someone who chooses not to stay,_ a voice within her answered. And no matter how much she begged, bargained and reasoned with the universe, there was no denying the truth she already knew in the depths of her heart.

Spock has to choose. 

But to choose _her_ above _ten thousand_ souls? In the numbers alone, logic was already against her. 

She knew better, of course. She understood that this baggage shackled to him was not just labeled _obligation_ and _moral duty._ It was also labeled kinship. Family. Loyalty. _Love_. Their relationship, in the bigger scheme of rebuilding an endangered society, is only collateral damage. Unfair, yes, but it was a necessary injustice.

No amount of crying and lashing out in the shower; no distance of sprints on the treadmill until her lungs burned for air and her legs throbbed for rest would make it any easier.

What hurt was that she _hasn’t_ gotten tired of Spock.

Contrary to what both she and Maisha feared, she didn’t feel trapped, didn’t get bored whether of telling him about her day or of his dry humor, his routines—not even of his hairstyle. They had their fair share of skirmishes and arguments, but not a moment did his bad parts outweigh her desire to continue being with him. There was not an inch of her that would not choose him, over and over and _over_ again.

What tore her apart was that she _wasn’t_ done loving him.

But ultimately it was _his_ decision to make.

 

The other night, when Maisha answered her call and appeared on the screen of her PADD, she broke down in a disgraceful fit of sobs. 

“Oh Ny,” was her sister’s sympathetic comment.

“I can’t do it. I can’t,” she hiccuped, shaking her head in defiance.

“I thought you said he needs to know he is free to decide, even if it is against you?” came the woman’s soothing response.

“I know what I said but it _hurts_ ,” she cried, thoughtless as to how childish she was sounding in front of her little sister. “I want him to choose _me_ and stay and—I don’t want to do it, Mai.”

“Well, maybe he _will_ stay. Maybe he _will_ choose you,” Maisha reasoned. “Sis, you’ll never know unless you give him fair time to choose, without you there to pressure him. Knowing Spock, he would _loathe_ to hurt you and that could already be compromising him from making this decision.”

She wiped salty wet streaks off her cheek and sniffed. “I tried bringing it up last night, but . . . I-I couldn’t do it. I couldn't say it.” And after a pause: “You know, I think Spock knows.”

“Knows that you know?”

Nyota nodded, clearing the tears from her eyes. She felt exhausted . . . hollow. “I think the reason why he still hasn’t brought it up with me is because he’s also uncertain at this point, and he doesn’t want to hurt me needlessly.”

While she allowed her words to sink in, more tears rushed to her eyes.

“God, Mai, I know what I have to do but . . . it’s _so_ hard. I’m scared if I put this space between us, I’d _lose_ him and all that we have for good. We have 6 years together, Mai, and it’s screwing me up how much I want more.”

There was no shame in admitting that she had indulged in fantasies of what their future could look like. Marriage . . . and more recently even children—a family. Certainly, not _this_. If it had to end, she had thought it more likely for death to do the job. 

 _Not_ _this_.

 

“Nyota?” 

His voice broke through her trance and she lifted her eyes to him.

“I have just been advised that the Teenaxi delegation has demanded to move the diplomatic meeting to the day after tomorrow rather than the week after. I suspect the move has more to do with a calculated desire to meet on their terms rather than _fortuitous_ event they claim,” the Vulcan said.

“Oh. Okay. I’ll hand in the captain’s speech by tomorrow then.”

“That will be appreciated.”

The brief exchange lifted her from the quagmire of depressed inertia. When Spock re-turned his back to her, Nyota immediately removed herself from the couch and headed to the kitchen.

She wasn’t thirsty but her hands moved to the cupboards anyway to grab the little box of tea bags. What she needed right now was to be more Vulcan, she told herself after a slow deep breath in and out. Spock once told her the skill was purely through mental will, a mastery of the mind to just stop feeling.                                                     

“Spock?”

Her voice was magnified by the silence in the cabin, but it was a _clear_ voice. A _strong_ voice.

Nyota didn’t need to look behind her to know she had his attention. She could _feel_ his gaze on her as she poured steaming water right on top of her favorite African Sunrise tea bag. 

She watched as the orange hue of her tea slowly diffused in the cup, tainting the water.

 _Irreversible_.

Just like the words she had to say.

“I need some time off.”

Her exhale was ragged with relief as the words finally rolled off her tongue. But almost as soon as she said it, hurt settled in, cracking her initial confidence.

“You speak vaguely.” His voice spoke of caution, confusion . . . and the faintest trace of a wilder emotion she could not name that suggested he had picked up on her meaning. “If you mean to say you are in need of more rest leaves from the Bridge, I suggest you make an appointment with Doctor McCoy and discuss it with the captain. I assure you he will be—”

“It’s not the Bridge, Spock,” Nyota intervened, gripping the edge of the countertop till the tip of her nails turned white. “It’s this relationship— _our_ relationship. I need some space.”

His silence pierced her but she could not turn back now. Through sheer will she kept her chin up and eyes focused as she faced him. He was standing precisely where she last saw him, except his eyes were completely fixed on her.

“What precisely are the terms of a ‘time off’?”

His desire for clarification felt like the twisting of a knife stabbed to her side, and she responded with slight irritation. 

“There are _no_ terms. It is what it is. An indefinite break, lesser contact—”

Spock moved towards her and the small of her back connected with the kitchen counter. He stopped advancing when he noticed her attempts of retreat and a flicker of hurt crossed his face. “Nyota, may I ask the motive behind such a decision?”

His voice _almost_ sounded frantic.

“You haven’t done anything wrong, Spock,” she quickly assured. If she had to be clear on anything it would be that. “It’s just that I’m—I’m going through something right now,” she muttered in half-truth. “Something very _personal_.”

“I would like to counter your proposal and explore an alternative,” he rebutted. “Dissolving our relationship for an indefinite period is extreme. A thorough discussion might serve to address your problem.”

The earnestness in his expression and the devotion in his statement caused her eyes to smart. 

“Look, to be honest, I think **_you_** need some time off too,” she finished with a soft sigh and a mournful smile. And with just enough tenderness, she reached a hand out to caress his jaw and looked him straight in the eye. “—To resolve the issues that have been bothering you.”

That’s the most she could bear to explain, but the way Spock’s shoulders stiffened suggested that he finally understood _why_.

“It’s for the best that we give each other some time and space to reflect what it is we truly want, Spock, not just for us but for _ourselves_.”

His sudden silence felt like a noose being tied around her neck.

She didn’t need to prolong this.

Retracting her hand, Nyota crossed her arms and stared at an invisible speck on the floor.

“I already moved some of my belongings back to my cabin,” she chattered. “I’ll sleep in my own place and will come over tomorrow to collect the rest of my things.”

“I . . . understand and respect your decision,” he said slowly as if the act of saying the words came with a struggle. When she lifted her gaze, his eyes were inscrutable, and he continued with his hands behind his back. “Please come over any time.”

They were both silent for a few painfully awkward seconds before he said: “If there is anything I can offer to help you Nyota, I trust you will let me know.”

She dipped her head to a tight nod. The part of her that had hoped he would not understand . . . would not let go, withered. They looked at each other at a loss of words, the space between seemingly farther than three feet.

On the kitchen counter, her cup of tea cooled and remained untouched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's me again! I've had this in the pipeline since I saw Beyond, and it's a relief to finally get it out of my head. I must say despite that this piece is a bit heavier than my usuals, I really enjoyed writing this from Nyota's perspective and exploring what it must have been like for her generally independent and strong willed character. The second chapter will be in Spock's perspective and will intersect with scenes from the movie. 
> 
> Constructive criticism and any feedback at all is welcome in the comments section!


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

The term _Space (n.)_  in Federation Standard held several definitions.

  1. The dimensions of height, depth, and width within which all things exist and move
  2. A continuous area or expanse which is free, available, or unoccupied
  3. An interval of time
  4. The freedom to live, think, and develop in a way that suits an individual



When Nyota claimed to need _space_ , Spock logically surmised she meant the fourth definition, which correspondingly communicated her decision to suspend their relationship indefinitely. The second definition was also promptly achieved when she removed her person and belongings from their— _his_ — quarters.

It came to his attention that gossip has been circulating after several crew members had observed Nyota retiring to her own cabin since the night they amicably parted ways. He suspected that his and the lieutenant’s relationship was the most favored topic of speculation aboard the ship, particularly during meal times.

On one instance as he was disposing his tray of plates and cutleries after a meal alone, he heard the comment of a young man from Engineering: _“I heard Uhura dumped him. Probably got boring.”_

He had also picked up on other comments ranging from ridiculously speculative to plain sympathetic around the ship.

_“I heard the commander’s secretly engaged back in Vulcan and Lieutenant Uhura just snapped when she found out.”_

_“It’s so sad! I’ve been rooting for them, y’know?”_

_“Uhura probably got tired of that hair.”_

_“So does this mean I can make a move on the lieutenant and not get my ass exiled to some Siberian planet?”_

_“They’re so professional though! Ugh. If only my ex had the same class.”_

_“It’s probably because he needs to have a Vulcan wife . . . you know to repopulate the colony.”_

The last statement came from one of his own science officers when the man thought he had left the premises. The Vulcan’s first reaction had been that of ire. Assumptions such as those had no place in a science lab within work hours. His succeeding reaction, however, mellowed as he acknowledged the man’s assumption, regardless if based on speculation, to be the truth.

To be offended at the statement of truth was illogical.

Approximately twenty-two days he received a call from his father relaying the unfortunate news of Ambassador Spock’s condition. His older self had contracted a similar but stronger strain of virus humans termed the “Vulcan influenza”. Such an illness once thought exclusive to their planet’s biosphere was estimated to be three times more severe than the typical human virus. His father communicated that an epidemic of the illness had spread among the population within the span of fifteen days and has had four casualties.

The probability that the Ambassador would add to the figure was at 88%, with its inclination to occurrence supported by the fact that the Ambassador was old. In any galactic quadrant, evolution dictates that one’s lifespan depended on the body’s ability to regenerate the needed immune cells to ward off disease and survive.

Ambassador Spock’s disadvantage was clear.

“Your visit could, as your mother would say, _cheer him up_ ,” his father had said with a slowness that was indicative of discomfort over his foreign choice of words. The statement was strongly reminiscent of his mother and the memory tugged on his heart.

“The Enterprise is scheduled to dock at Yorktown in 520 hours. If it is permissible for me to do so, I will board a transport bound for New Vulcan immediately,” Spock responded calmly. They exchanged a nod and Sarek disappeared from the screen.

He found Nyota in the bedroom, visibly upset by the news they both heard. She briskly wiped the tears from her eyes when he entered the room. “Is he really going to—“

_Die._

Humans are often unnecessarily uncomfortable when speaking of death and tended to tiptoe, sometimes superstitiously, around the very word.

“The probability indicates so,” he confirmed, remaining silent when Nyota began exhibiting more signs of emotional distress. She ended, as always, bearing a more optimistic outlook.

“There’s still a 12% chance. Let’s _hope_ for the best.”

 _Hope_ , he thought, was the human’s default response in the face of the unknown and great odds. It was a force almost supernatural; yet he was uncertain whether it was more boon or curse. That evening, just when he commanded the lights off to prepare for slumber and slipped into bed, Nyota inquired after his state.

“Are you okay?”

“Clarify.”

“About the Ambassador,” she murmured with eyes closed. “I can’t even imagine what it must feel like for you.”

“The prospect of losing a mentor very much admired is unfortunate.”

_“I’m sorry.”_

He lied awake long after Nyota drifted to sleep, pondering on those two words.

To feel sorry for a life soon to be extinguished by a natural force was illogical. Unlike the death of his mother and the billions of his kin, there was no senseless injustice at work, only disease—an understandable, however unfortunate, repercussion of a new habitat. Should Ambassador Spock die, his death will not be considered a disruption but rather a part of the life cycle.

He grappled with the question of Nyota’s emotion, and just before he too finally succumbed to rest, Spock’s final realization was that, as illogical as it was, he too was sorry.

 

Spock rolled his meditation mat and strapped it to its case. It was the last of the possessions he intended to take with him to New Vulcan while the Enterprise remained docked at Yorktown. 

Rising to his feet, he surveyed the room.

Nyota had stripped his cabin clear of her possessions. Her fruity African tea bags were no longer in his cupboard and the plethora of female shoes was absent from his shoe rack by the door. He now had one empty closet and a consistently utilitarian bathroom without her bottles of lotions, moisturizers, hair tonics and cosmetics.

The day after their parting had felt peculiar given her absence and the jarring break from their morning rituals. It was disorienting how he had to remind himself to cook for one instead of two and that the shower was accessible anytime he desired. The silence in the room without her laughter was . . . irregular.

Spock stared at the spot where she last stood—by the kitchen counter—when she brought up the topic of separation. She had been quiet that evening while he had been focused on his research.

It had been sudden, but not entirely unexpected. In the days prior to their separation, he had been mentally debating with himself and had even extended his daily meditations by an hour to rehash the same questions and critique the same arguments.

His duty to his own specie, to assist them in this critical period had been his most immediate concern after the destruction of Vulcan. Against the commands of his own desire, he had then decided to resign from Star Fleet and would have done so had it not been for Ambassador Spock who urged him otherwise. 

_“Do what feels right.”_

It was distinctly _human_  to use intuition so reductively. To hear it coming from himself—his older self—had been astonishing.

He had thought it _felt right_ to stay with Star Fleet; to serve alongside the newly promoted Captain Jim Kirk; to re-pursue a romantic relationship with Nyota. However, the rightness of such actions had been unfairly leveraged by the Ambassador’s decision to personally assist in New Vulcan.

Therein lay his problem.

With Ambassador Spock currently indisposed, would the right thing still _feel_ right? Would it not be the logical option to return to New Vulcan and take up the responsibility in the Ambassador’s stead?

The same guilt four years ago afflicted him in the aftermath of his father’s call, but the dilemma was now two-fold. Should he resign from his post, his decision would ultimately affect Nyota. It struck him unjust and morally wrong to physically abandon her in this manner after he had agreed to resume a romantic relationship with the lieutenant. Did he not also have a responsibility to nurture her happiness? He was averse to causing her unnecessary pain.

And yet . . . through the marvelous workings of female intuition and empathy, Nyota had been able to perceive his dilemma, and her knowing had consequently hurt despite his efforts to avoid such an occurrence. When she left their quarters that evening nine days ago, he immediately turned to meditation to digest the reality of their indefinite separation.The memory of her ghostly touch over his jaw lingered in the fringes of his thoughts—of her unusually cold hand and mournful eyes.  

Spock bent over to pick up his Star Fleet standard issued duffle bag just as his comm device beeped _._  

_“Commander, arriving at Yorktown star base at approximately thirty three minutes. Exiting warp in two.”_

“Acknowledged, lieutenant.”

He promptly deposited his belongings to the baggage area, requested priority unloading to hasten his plans to return to New Vulcan and, upon confirmation, headed to the Bridge.

The excited chatter of the Bridge team drew immediate attention the moment he stepped into the area. It was simple to deduct the reason why as the view from the window was considered by most to be one of the highest feats in architectural engineering and a breakthrough in urban development—Yorktown, an artificially constructed diplomatic zone for both military and commerce. He himself marveled at the intricate marriage of science and art.

Tilting his head twenty seven degrees to the right, he saw Nyota by her comm station staring at the same view and felt his admiration shift.

 

 _“I want a new look. How's this?”_ Nyota asked, padding to the bedroom one morning, a year and a half ago, where he was smoothing out the creases on the bed. She had loosely plaited her hair and rested it on top of her right shoulder. 

Spock was uncertain how to adequately respond to her question, but to his relief the woman did not begrudge his silence. Instead, she carried on with her monologue.

“You know what, I think it’s too casual. Doesn’t exactly command respect . . .” Convinced by her own inner critic, the lieutenant marched back to the bathroom.

Spock glanced at the timepiece on the side table.

“Okay, here. What about this?”

She opted for a loose ponytail with her hair parted in the middle. He personally found the look to be aesthetically pleasing, but before he could express it, Nyota already retreated back to the bathroom claiming it was too “zen” and not enough “kiss ass”.

When the time advanced by five more minutes, he decided to interrupt her endeavor. “Nyota, I have to report to the Bridge in precisely forty one minutes. Kindly vacate the bathroom for my use.”

“Go ahead and shower. I just need the mirror.”

Her casualty caught him off guard. For one, this was a deviation from their morning routine. Bathroom rituals were usually personal for the both of them.

She must have sensed his reservations as she grinned. “Oh, Spock, don’t be a prude. It’s not like I haven’t seen it. I’ll be quick.”

As it was illogical to feel embarrassed over his nudity before Nyota, he merely raised his brows and commenced to disrobe. The woman generally kept her eyes trained on the mirror, excluding the four covert glances she shot his way, one of which he thought was aimed at his nether regions.

“This one?”

She caged the back of her hair in a bun with her hair partial to the right side. “Ugh. Forget it. Looks like I aged ten years.”

By the time he was toweling himself off, she had finally gotten it right. She parted her hair across ear level and kept the top half tied and the bottom half loose.

“What do you think?”

“It is pleasing. However, you sported the same hair fashion on several occasions in the academy; hence it would be erroneous to call it a _new look_.”

He wrapped the towel around his hips, and when she still made no movement to remove herself from the bathroom, he peered at her questioningly.

“Actually,” she said, biting into her lip in a manner between teasing and seduction. “I just wanted to stall so I could peek at you in the shower.”

Her words left him _without_ words.

“It’s called flirtation, Mr. Spock,” she said with a huge grin in answer to his bewildered look. She stood on her toes and planted a kiss on his cheek before sauntering away.

 

He watched as tension gradually overtook the serene expression he had been admiring. When her dark eyes met his, she offered him a weak yet polite smile to which he countered with a nod. Her eyes appeared exhausted, and he wondered whether she had been resting well. 

They kept interactions minimal, often going past 24 hours without a word to each other. It was agreed upon that they would avoid unnecessary contact until at least one week into their shore leave. What was left unspoken was the mutual expectation of each other’s decision at the end of that period as to how they were to move forward with their relationship—a decision he had yet to make through more intense meditation.

Spock stepped forward once the captain entered the Bridge and attempted to dismiss the sensation of longing churning in his abdomen with a caustic remark aimed at Doctor McCoy’s typically ridiculous suggestion to “rent a space on some planet”. 

In nineteen minutes, Sulu maneuvered the ship past the base’s access tunnel.

“Attention, crew, this is your captain speaking,” Jim hollered from his chair upon the successful docking of the Enterprise. “Welcome to Yorktown. Have some wild fun everyone, and I’ll see you all in two weeks. Kirk out.”

Once it was clear for him to do so, Spock took his leave and headed straight to the aerobridge to disembark. He kept his pace calm and looked on as several members of the crew briskly walked past him in an animated prattle.

“Spock!”

His ears, long been trained to respond to even the softest murmur of that voice, commanded his body to stop while his mind hurried to catch on.

“Do you have moment?”

The last time she had asked for his time with an air of similar shyness and uncertainty was when she was still in under his Advanced Phonetics class. It was a manner of asking fitting for an acquaintance, he thought, careful to suppress the pinprick of hurt.

“ _Of course_ , Nyota.”

“Uhm, I think you should have this back,” she began, reaching underneath the collar of her uniform. She refused to look at him as she fished out the jewelry he had given her to commemorate their 6th year of being in an exclusive romantic relationship. “After all it belonged to your mother.”

Rather than the tightening in his throat, he chose to focus on the jewelry she revealed under the tips of her fingers.

Not too long ago, it had been on his mother’s hand.

 

 _"Here.”_

Spock stared at the bright cerulean necklace Amanda Grayson proffered. The mineral encased within the gold chain was unmistakably vokaya. They had just finished a pleasant evening meal in one of their usual restaurants by the bay when the woman mentioned a desire to discuss a “matter of great importance”.

“What is your intention, mother, in presenting me your jewelry?” 

He noted the mischievous twinkle in his mother’s wide eyes. “It’s an heirloom, Spock.”

He raised a brow. “I presume you are aware that the crafting of that adornment was meant for the female sex.”

“Oh, Spock, it’s not for you,” Amanda laughed, darting her son an indulgent look that was meant to be more chiding. “It’s for your lady.”

The giddy manner in which she said “lady” was more appropriate for a pubescent girl witnessing the passing of a boy she admires rather than a grown woman of considerable repute.

“Mother, Nyota and I had only begun formally seeing each other in light of an exclusive relationship three weeks and six days ago,” he reminded. Spock deemed presenting jewelry neither wise nor appropriate given the infancy of their relationship.

“I’m not saying you give it to her now,” the woman explained. “And I’m not saying you give it to the _lovely_ Ms. Uhura either.”

Spock narrowed his eyes in confusion as the woman’s tone presented a contradiction in that she most certainly meant it for Nyota. Or at the very least was hoping it be meant for Nyota. His mother’s tendency to give cryptic remarks had been straining his skill in deduction for twenty-eight years.

Amanda’s eyes softened with blatant affection as her son accepted the jewelry. “Give it to the right person whenever the time _feels right_ , Spock.”

“I would typically request you clarify; yet by now I know your answer would be to follow the organ whose primary function is to circulate blood throughout my body.”

The woman’s exasperated expression broke into a giggle and his neutral lips twitched to a smile.

 

“It is not in the Vulcan custom," Spock responded diplomatically against the constriction in his right abdomen, "to once again receive that which was given as a gift.” 

He did not know how to make sense of the emotion in her eyes; and when she suddenly leaned forward and planted a kiss on the spot just beside his lips, his organs lurched at the contact long denied and his thoughts ceased for 2.4 seconds. The familiar brush of her lips taunted that part of him he had been keeping strictly in check for the past nine days—that which craved for her proximity, her touch.

She said nothing more and walked away with her arms lightly swaying in sync with the movement of her hips. Spock stood his ground, watching with a feeling that converged between helplessness and resignation, as she retreated further from his sight.

Fifteen minutes later he learned that Ambassador Spock had died.

 

* * *

 

 _Do what feels right_.

The advice struck him as naïve in the light of his internal turmoil. Did it truly feel right to stay with Star Fleet or did it only feel _good_?

Even Vulcan children as young as five would know that _rightness_ and feeling good are not mutually exclusive. Across history, rightness had also come from _sacrifice_ , from other labors in which pleasure plays no part in the equation. Feelings, as much as they can lead to fulfillment, can be deceiving. The feeling of being right can become contingent on external factors and may therefore be inconsistent, an erroneous foundation for moral judgment.

Did it truly feel _right_ to be with Nyota or had he been swayed by the immense satisfaction and pleasure it gave him to be in her intimate presence? Can he say he was right to have chosen to progress their relationship when their affection for each other—strengthened through the years—now only magnified her pain and misery? When, to her, his current indecision was an unnecessary cruelty?

Spock filled his lungs and let out a steady exhale.

The news of the Ambassador’s passing was expected; yet the experience of loss had left him reeling with an awareness of his own mortality.

The two representatives his father had sent informed him of the details surrounding the death and the burial ceremony that followed immediately after. A considerable crowd quite unorthodox to their customs had been present, proving that the passing of his older self had been keenly felt and grieved. It could therefore be deducted that the impact the Ambassador had made was sufficiently considerable to warrant such an honor.

He pondered what impression his own death would cause.

Should he die in the line of duty to Star Fleet, in the name of diplomacy and scientific discovery, would his life have mattered similarly to his kin? Would he, in the final moments of his life, be at peace with his resolution to pursue his passions and own fulfillment?

It was only natural that the remaining thousands of the Vulcan population now looked on to him with both expectation and trepidation—expectation of the same potential for greatness his older self had established and apprehension should he fall short of this standard.

The sentiments of his specie mirrored his own.

He desired—no, _yearned_ to be as great as the Ambassador. Not for fame or for power and prestige but rather for impact . . . _meaning_. For one’s life to make a difference in the world and to be remembered by the invaluable contribution of one’s brief lifetime to the lives of thousands, even reaching the lives of generations long after . . . Was that not the common transcendental thirst long contemplated by philosophers?

Yet were his current contributions more valuable than securing a steady food source for the colony and assisting in rebuilding the once thriving Vulcan economy? Was his personal commitment to Nyota’s happiness more significant than supporting New Vulcan’s most immediate need for repopulation?

When Spock opened his eyes, the morning light was just beginning to seep into the room. He had slept for four hours and meditated for eight. Despite having not partaken of nourishment in eighteen hours; his appetite remained indifferent to the thought of food. 

It was, however, Sunday. And as routine and the empty pantry dictated, a visit to the market was due.

The place he managed to secure for the duration of his shore leave was strategically located near a farmer’s market that promised a fresher and more natural selection of produce and a most anticipated break from replicator nourishment. The three-block walk, at the very least, offered him a brief distraction from the decision he recently concluded as he persuaded himself to take in the details of the city.

He appreciated the gentle morning breeze, however equally artificial it was to the Enterprise’s ventilation system. High above him, a different section of Yorktown was beginning to wake-that of high buildings, commerce and industry as compared to the residential serenity of his chosen neighborhood.

With the sound of his heel tapping on the pavement in his ears, he could not resist but wonder what Nyota thought of the city. She had been full of excitement when it was announced they would be making a stop at Yorktown, having even made a list of the vegan restaurants they were to try. She would have used the word “amazing” and “wow” repeatedly in expressing her marvel over the city and he, as logic dictated would have pointed out the redundancy. The fictitious scene played in his mind and Spock wondered whether she rented a place outside the Fleet’s subsidized dormitories as he had and if she was already awake.

Soon, he spotted the row of vegetables and the colorful stack of fruits piled on wooden racks and small crates.The stalls stood side by side under the shade of a makeshift canvas awning, occupying a parking lot that took up half a block. The market was considerably larger than the one he frequented in San Francisco, and at 06:36, there was already a small crowd armed with sling bags and baskets.

He began at the grains section and took time with his purchases. 98% of the average 2.5 minute delay was caused by his habit of referring to Nyota’s preferences—a factor he no longer needed to consider as he persisted in reminding himself. It was irrelevant to ponder on the 65% probability, for example, that she would purchase corn for a well loved recipe of corn chowder. She would also consider a bit of barley (25% probability of purchase) to roast for tea and quinoa (93%) to complement the mushrooms (100%). She would—

As he turned the corner, his eyes were drawn to a familiar presence on the other side of the market. Not more than four stalls away, Nyota stood, inspecting a ball of purple cabbage—one of the ingredients of her favored mango salad—dressed in a casual white day dress and an oversized cardigan with her hair loose over one shoulder. As always, her aesthetic was pleasing even with her face bare of cosmetics.

Spock's whole being stilled. 

It was mathematically plausible that the similarities in their thought processes led to concurring decisions and therefore an intersection of schedules; however, he was illogically tempted for a few seconds to consider that which humans used rather emotionally: _fate._

She smiled at the old female vendor and picked up a few stalks of spinach while carrying a casual conversation. Even from afar he felt the stirrings of pleasure from observing her, alongside the heavier emotions of longing and loss.

The end, Spock realized, had a peculiar way of demanding to be appreciated.

He remembered the small qualities he deeply admired in her: the confidence in her posture as she manned the communications station; the softness of her lips when it curled to a smile; the warm earthy tone of her skin and the heat of her body pressed against his back when she slept; the loud raucous pitch of her laughter incited by shallow jokes and humor he could not always grasp. He thought of her touch, the feel of her palm reassuring and tender.

As Nyota moved on to pick a yellow bell pepper, he thought about how she favored lounging in sleep attire on Sunday mornings but would, on occasion, exert the effort to join him in the market. She drew satisfaction from lazy walks with no purpose but to hold his hand and breathe in fresh air, and she adored frozen, sweetened dairy products beyond comprehension.

Until now there was an unknown force at work drawing him to her. More than her physical aesthetics and even her intelligence, it was her passion, her _soul_.

And he could not look away.

 

The first time he recalled being aware of his romantic sentiments towards Nyota was hardly a moment of occasion. It had been, by all means, an ordinary day, the cadet being three weeks and two days into the assignment as his teaching aide.

He had come from a seminar on the latest developments in Cryogenic energy in long-term space travel and was traversing the route across the student dorms as he calculated it to be 12 minutes faster than having to circle across the Health Sciences hall to reach faculty housing.

Spocks would have elected the longer route had he not been expecting a scheduled call from his mother. He was aware that a faculty member of his intimidating repute and non-popularity had the tendency of putting his former students—should he pass them by—in distress. Their dilemma, as he was made to understand, was whether or not to give him a proper address.

It was illogical, he thought, to feel obligated to greet a former instructor. On his part, there was certainly no expectation to receive any form of acknowledgment. Should all of his former students respond to this misplaced social courtesy, he would have to respond to at least 20 greetings on average between classes.

It was inefficient and an unnecessary consumption of energy.

To remedy the problem, he attempted not to meet anyone’s gaze as he steadily walked past the side passage between dorms D and C. He had crossed paths with five former students already and spotted two current ones. The eighth cadet he noticed, however, brought curious interest to the forefront of his consciousness.

On the lawn just before dorm building C was his teaching aide, bathing under the golden afternoon sun, sitting cross-legged while engrossed with her chosen reading material. 

His recognition was instantaneous—an evidence of his familiarity with the slim frame of her body and . . . of something else more rooted in instinct as heightened awareness diffused to the tips of his fingers and the points of his ears.

The PADD rested on her calves such that she had to bow her head to read. Her right elbow connected with the bend on her knee as her right palm cradled her chin. On her left was a partially consumed Macintosh apple. 

She was, he observed with a slight crease between his brows, peculiarly barefooted.

 _And_ _beautiful_.

There was no reason for him to dally or to disrupt her recreation so the temptation that gripped him to do so was . . . confusing.

As he walked on, he heard the equally familiar squeals of one Orion cadet whom he knew to be one of Cadet Uhura’s intimate friends. In the brief glance behind him, he saw Cadet Uhura laugh over a presumed humor injected somewhere within her friends’ incessant chatter.

The sight of her unabated pleasure and the sound of her laughter echoed in his ears, startling his pulse to a race. But beneath the physical symptoms lurked the bolder sensation of desire intertwined with the silky threads of a deeply sated emotion—a combination he deducted, only after careful meditation, to be _affection_.

 

When she finally turned towards his direction, their eyes locked.

Her hesitation and discomfort in his presence was distressing yet understandable. She looked as if she was deliberating whether to approach him or settle for a distant wave.

The former triumphed.

“Hey.”

“Hello.”

She smiled at his one-worded response. “You know, it’s funny how we’ve travelled across space for years only to still prove the phrase _it’s a small world_ true.”

“Indeed.”

Her kind smile pierced him and the prospect of not seeing it in the daily frequency that he preferred clawed into his consciousness.

 _It’s probably because he needs to have a Vulcan wife to repopulate the colony,_ he recalled his science officer saying. Were he to respond to the conjecture at the present, he would have mentioned taking a Vulcan wife was not strictly necessary. It was merely a highly logical option.

To continue the Ambassador’s work on New Vulcan would necessitate a long distance relationship spanning light years away. They could attempt to maintain a relationship, but the probability that the physical distance would prove too exhausting for her was high, and he had no desire to frustrate her further.

With the way Nyota had strongly contested her initial assignment to the Farragut, he knew she was living her dream serving aboard the Enterprise in a role she would not have, as a cadet, imagined having. He would not take her from her dreams and passion any more than she would care to abandon it.

Furthermore, he also thought it unlikely that Vulcan culture would suit the lieutenant for a prolonged period of time. His mother had adapted well enough, but Amanda Grayson’s personality was, in many ways, more tempered than Nyota’s. The lieutenant was the personification of her name: freedom and stars. Should he opt to be more poetic, perhaps it was her destiny to roam through the vastness of space freely, unencumbered by his obligations.

More than he would care to admit, it was one of his deeper desires for Nyota Uhura to fulfill her exceptional potential, for her to reach the highest of her stars . . . 

“I . . . heard about this place from my landlady,” she offered after a four second pause to fan the dying embers of a conversation. “And you?”

“I encountered it during my research on suitable neighborhoods across the city.” Then before he could stop himself, Spock inquired: “Do you find your accommodation satisfactory?”

His intention was to satiate his concern for her; but the statement only called attention to their new reality. It was the first time since the beginning of their commission that they were residing in separate residences.

“It is.”

They navigated through the conversation with uncertainty and confusion, just as the on the night of their parting. They were no longer lovers but rather two distinct individuals at a sudden shy loss of words after years being intimate with each other’s thoughts.

Spock surmised once they’ve mutually concluded to dissolve their relationship, they could more easily acclimate to friendship.

“Nyota.“

She waited for his message, eyes wide with anticipation.

_I have decided to submit my resignation._

“I . . . wish you a pleasant leave,” he said in a rare fumble of words and courage.

Nyota blinked and looked down on her basket with an inscrutable expression. “Uhm, thanks. You too.”

“Thank you.”

“I-I should go,” she mumbled.

Spock nodded and angled his body to face her just when she passed him. “Goodbye, Nyota.”

The woman stopped for a brief moment as if to consider a deeper meaning of those two words and looked over her shoulder. Her voice was soft, a verbal caress. “Goodbye, Spock.”

 _Tomorrow,_ he amended, as he watched her turn at the corner, disappearing from his sight.

He would tell her tomorrow.

Later that evening, Spock received an assembly call from the captain requesting all personnel to resume their stations at 09:00 the following morning for an emergency rescue operation.


End file.
